


Bleeding Out

by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, M/M, Modern AU, tw: gun violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Called 'No Greater Loss' on my tumblr. When Grantaire's whole world is shaken apart, he doesn't know if he will ever be able to go on. But an unexpected light in the darkness helps him find his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... this is heavy, I'm sorry for that. But I was really proud of this piece, for some reason, so hopefully you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to day to celebrate the life and death of a magnificent young man, Alexander Enjolras.”

_He remembered the screaming, the gunshots, the cries and pleas for help and ‘oh, dear God get us out of here! Save us, please, and look a kind eye upon us if no one else will!’ The line had echoed more powerfully than the gun shots, and only moments later a bullet had found it’s way lodged into the pleader’s skull. Grantaire remembered watching in stunned horror as crimson blood — thick, sticky, metallic, pungent — gushed like a waterfall from the wound, staining the girl’s clothes as she slouched over, dead. This was supposed to be a peaceful protest, one for gay rights and against the ban of gay marriage… where had that gone so wrong?_

_It was at that point that Grantaire had realized he needed to snap out of it. His brain lagged as his body moved, rushed to find the one person he knew he needed to find, to pull him back because he knew, he just knew the other man would be trying something heroic. He had to get to him, had to find him, had to —_

“His was a life full of passion and justice, for he was a man who truly knew the difference of right and wrong and understood sacrifice.”

_Of course he was trying to reason with the crazed gunman. This was Enjolras we were talking about here. He was just as passionate and fiery as always as he stood face to face with a tall, nervous looking man holding two pistols. “You don’t have to do this. You are better than this.” Grantaire heard the words leave his boyfriend’s lips, saw the gunman raise his guns, saw it all happen. But his feet, they couldn’t move fast enough; he couldn’t jump in front of the bullet in time, couldn’t use his mind to will it down a different path._

_Enjolras’s body fell to the harsh cement with a sickening thud and it took less than two seconds for Grantaire to throw himself onto the ground, fingers flying, looking for a way to stop the bleeding because Dear God, there was so much blood. It was a river that flowed between his fingers, sticky and hot, staining his jeans, invasively spreading over every surface it touched like a weed. Hot tears of frustration spilled down Grantaire’s cheeks as he cradled the man against his chest, and Enjolras tried to hold his hand. But he was too weak; he could hardly hold his head up, much less reach out and grasp his boyfriend’s fingers in hopes of comforting the other through his own last few minutes of life._

_Grantaire’s sobs were the predominant sound now, and the police (when had they arrived?) were dragging the gunman away in cuffs. Grantiare still sat upon the sidewalk with his Apollo in his arms, limp, lifeless, and… it was too late._

_“You were supposed to be immortal,” he’d sobbed in frustration as the paramedics arrived and tried to pry Grantaire’s greedy fingers from the corpse. “This isn’t how this was supposed to happen!” his sobs violently shook through his body, to the point where he couldn’t even stand. “Take me instead! Please! He’s not dead, **take me!** ”_

“We will now have a few words from the deceased’s closest friend, Marcus Combeferre.”

_Combeferre. He’d been there too, with his kind, wet eyes and his glasses askew. He’d wrapped his strong arms around Grantaire’s chest, held him back, restrained him from the worst that could have been._

_“Kill me! You fucking bastard, JUST SHOOT ME! You killed him, I know you can put a bullet through my head! Do you regret it? Do you see what you’ve done?” His words were loud, harsh, and cruel, much as the words he spoke when he was drunk tended to be. How could this be happening? How could the one thing that provided his life with a sweetness that contrasted his usual bitterness so perfectly be taken away from him? “Please, please Combeferre, let me die. This life is u-useless w-without him-m,” he sobbed as he collapsed into a shell of a man whose only support was a close friend kind enough to let the tears fall. Obviously Combeferre knew the importance of mourning._

“Enjolras would hate this. He’d want the money to go to the cause, and —” Combeferre paused here to chuckle sadly as he wiped at his misty eyes. “And he’d be glad he died for that cause. That’s right, he was my closest friend, my mentor, my chief, the man who I would follow to the gates of hell and back because he was right. And that’s what he’d want us to take from this: we have set backs in our life, but they will never stop us.” Tears were flowing freely in the church now, and the atmosphere was heavy. Hundreds had shown up through out the day to pay their respects, and all of the Amis had huddled onto one specific pew. They were a mass of bodies all entangled together, all trying to comfort each other through a harsh reality they wished didn’t exist. But none looked as bad off as Grantaire.

The artist sat between Cosette and Jehan with Eponine perched territorially in his lap. Her arms were threaded carefully around his neck, and his face was nestled deeply between her shoulder and neck. He breathed deeply, but no one could miss the tear stains on the shoulder of Ponine’s black dress, or the broken sobs that occasionally left the man’s lips. His shoulders shook violently and he smelled of whisky and stale cigarettes, but no one faulted him. No one could find it in their hearts to chide him when he was suffering such a great loss.

“I’m not him; I can’t make blazing speeches that make you want to take to the streets and do something. But I can assure you, this man was well-loved. He’d be proud of the work he’d done, and we should be proud of the life he lead. Don’t think of it as the end of a sentence, but the start of a fresh one.” It was an anticlimactic ending, but Combeferre needed to get away from the prying eyes, the expectant gazes that knew he could hold himself together better than any of the other Amis. He squeezed between Cosette and Grantaire and didn’t even blink as he wrapped his arm around the other man. Ponine didn’t protest as Grantaire shifted, resting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder and turning his nose into the nape of the student’s neck. No one quite knew what happened behind closed doors, but every one knew Combeferre and Grantaire had gotten shockingly close during these devastating days.

He smelled like Enjolras, and Grantaire assumed Combeferre had started using their leader’s cologne lately as a security blanket. Or maybe it was for him, to make him feel better every time Combeferre held him. If he closed his eyes and breathed deeply enough, Grantaire could pretend that Combeferre’s strong, knowing arms were Enjolras’s. But there was a new kind of softness to Combeferre, one that Grantaire found himself finding solace in. It was in the way Combeferre’s fingers would loop through his without Grantaire needing to remind him by brushing his palm along the back of Combeferre’s hand. It was how Combeferre always had a cup of coffee ready for him in the mornings, and instead of chiding him for smoking would join him out on the patio. They hadn’t actually slept together, not in the sexual sense of the word, but Grantaire had been loitering in Combeferre’s bed since day one. Going back to the apartment he’d shared with Enjolras was just too hard.  
Enjolras’s parents had come to collect his things a few days after, and both Combeferre and Grantaire had been present for that, though after five minutes of playing ‘whose clothes are whose’ Grantaire had needed to excuse himself. He’d gone out onto the balcony, phone and cigarette in hand, and had spent the next thirty minutes calling Enolras’s phone just to hear that damned voice mail and smoking like a chimney.

_“You’ve reached Enjolras. I’m busy right now, please leave a message.”_

He went through a whole pack that morning.

The group left the church a mess of tangled fingers, forgotten jackets, and heart felt tears. But none stood as close as Combeferre and Grantaire. It seemed as if Combeferre was Grantaire’s rock, as if without him he might just sink away into a puddle on the ground, and maybe that would have been better than trying (and failing) to be strong. “I can’t do this,” Grantaire rasped into Combeferre’s ear, his whiskers tickling against the studious man’s cheek.

Combeferre simply frowned. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but…” He trailed off as he dropped Grantaire’s hand (this received an indignant kind of huff) and instead wrapped his arm around Grantaire’s lower back, pulling the man closer so Combeferre could whisper into his ear, leaving the rest of the group to look away sheepishly, as if they were intruding on a very intimate moment.

“He would want you there.”

Simple. The words brought tears pricking into Grantaire’s eyes as he stopped walking and buried his face into his hands. A fresh wave of tears started, and Combeferre immediately felt awful. He pulled Grantaire close, wrapping him up in a tight embrace, and absently stroked the jet black curls as Grantaire’s forehead rested on his shoulder. He was dissolving at Ferre’s fingertips and he had no idea how to help his friend. All Combeferre could do was continue what he’d been doing and hope it would be enough.

The rest of the ceremony passed arduously, and as the crowd was dissipating, the Amis only huddled closer together. Polite words were exchanged with Enjolras’s parents ( _“It was a beautiful ceremony.” “You’re son imprinted my life, I thank you for that.” “sorry for your loss.”_ ) before the group headed together towards the parking lot.

“You’re taking Taire home, right?” Courfeyrac said quietly to Ferre. Currently, Eponine was entertaining Grantaire’s time with a story about how Bahorel had managed to get a black eye in a bar fight last week.

“Of course,” Combeferre said through tight lips. No one needed to know that ‘home’ meant Ferre’s shitty one bedroom apartment that now smelled of Grantaire’s cheap cigarettes and held double the amount of clothing it could handle (‘We aren’t living together, it’s just until I can find a new place alright?’). No one needed to know the way the bed was starting to shape to Grantaire’s form from so many nights of use, or the way Taire’s shit loitered for far too long upon his bedside table. They didn’t need to know how after Combeferre left in the morning Grantaire sobbed guilty tears for the emotions he truly felt, as if he were cheating on his dead boyfriend despite the fact that he hadn’t even kissed Ferre yet.

No one needed to know.

They didn’t need to know the way Combeferre watched as Grantaire slept fitfully, the way his fingers lovingly would brush back the sweaty black curls, how he would gently shush the cynic when he called out Enjolras’s name and reached for something both of them knew wasn’t there. The Amis didn’t have to know the swelling Combeferre felt every time Grantaire looked at him, or the way his heart sunk when he realized that Taire was only using him as a place holder.

They didn’t deserve to know, because in a heartbreaking time like this, sometimes comfort was the only thing that mattered, and he refused to have his comfort ripped from him.

Everyone parted ways, leaving only two figures behind, one who clutched a flask and the other with a cigarette between his lips. “We can leave whenever you’re ready,” Ferre told the other man as he squeezed his hand.

“I wanted to leave the moment it happened.” His words were empty, dry, harsh and hollow, and brought a fresh prick of tears to Combeferre’s eyes, but he willed them away and sighed out a puff of smoke as Grantaire swigged down some whisky.

“I won’t let that happen,” Combeferre murmured as he put out the cigarette and climbed into his car, unlocking the passenger door for Grantaire. They drove back to the apartment silently, a mix tape Grantaire had made Enjolras months ago playing. Silent tears, hot and heavy, trickled down Grantaire’s cheeks as he stared out the window.

With a heavy sigh, Combeferre parked in his slot and sat for a brief second. The sun had set as they’d driven home, and though it was early he thought bed was a good idea. “Come on, Taire, we should get some sleep.”

Grantaire simply stared out the window and chewed his lower lip. He still was in love with Enjolras… but how could you love something that no longer existed? As Ferre pulled open his door, Grantaire slid out fluidly and immediately lit up another cigarette. Ferre took his hand, leading him carefully into the apartment and helping him into a kitchen chair. “Do you want any food?” There was a simple shake of Grantaire’s head. Combeferre simply nodded once and took the cigarette from the other’s fingers. After a long drag he put the cancer stick out. “C’mon, let’s sleep. You will feel better in the morning.”

Once again all he got from Taire was a quick nod. His eyes were hollow, dead, almost, and it was scaring him. But what had he expected? For Grantaire to leap into his arms and profess his love after his dead boyfriend’s funeral? Shit. He was an awful person, wasn’t he?

Both stripped down to their boxers and slid under the sheets where they resumed the position that had become nothing less than habitual these past few weeks. Grantaire tucked himself against Combeferre’s chest, his face hiding between Ferre’s neck and shoulder and their legs intertwined. Combeferre’s arms circled Grantaire, held him close as he breathed in the familiar smell of whisky and coffee and occasionally paint but usually cigarettes. He could feel Grantaire’s fresh tears staining his smooth skin as the man trembled in his arms, and once more Combeferre stroked Taire’s hair, murmuring soft, kind words into his ear as Grantaire just cried.

Once the artist was spent, Combeferre kissed his forehead tenderly. “We’ll make it through this, Taire,” he whispered as a few tears of his own fell.


End file.
